Линси Сэндс - Meant to Be Immortal [calibre]

Her gaze slid over the people gathered by the ambulance, but they were in one of those shadows and she couldn’t tell who made up the group, so she let her eyes shift over the rest of the yard until she spotted Simpson with what looked like a large fishing tackle box but she knew was actually his evidence-gathering kit. She’d forgotten all about that, CJ realized, and relaxed a bit, some of her annoyance sliding away. He might have forgotten about questioning the victim, but at least he hadn’t forgotten the evidence. That was something, she supposed as she watched the young officer walk over to the group by the ambulance.

Once he reached it, a large figure stepped out of the center of the crowd and joined him. Macon Argeneau, she realized as the pair started down the long driveway, stopping at each vehicle so Simpson could take a photo of the license plate.

Argeneau moved like a panther, she thought as she watched the two dark figures make their way along the driveway. He was all sleek muscle, and smooth movement, which she found ridiculously attractive. CJ could have stood there watching him walk for hours, but then realizing just how much she was enjoying surveying his body as he approached, she turned abruptly and got into her car.

“Men,” she muttered to herself as she slammed her door closed. CJ didn’t have the time or patience to deal with them. She liked her life just the way it was: nice, peaceful, no drama. She didn’t need some strutting male stud rampaging through her life, waking up desires she hadn’t felt in years. Not that Mac Argeneau had done that, she reassured herself. So . . . he was attractive. She could appreciate that without it meaning anything. Hell, she thought Rodin’s The Thinker was beautiful too. Didn’t mean she wanted to sleep with the statue.

CJ tapped one finger on the steering wheel as she tried to figure out how long it would be before she could go to bed and get some sleep. She was obviously tired. That was probably why she found Mac attractive: exhaustion. She’d rectify that quickly. She’d take Officer Simpson and his arson victim to the police station, and check in to see if Jefferson was still around. If he was, she would question him. If he wasn’t, she’d find out when his next shift started and flee to the safety of the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying.

Jefferson was the reason she was here, CJ reminded herself. She was going to handle her investigation as quickly as she could and get the hell out of Dodge—or Sandford as the case may be—and drive straight back to Mississauga to present her findings to her superior. Then she would forget all about Macon (hot as hell Mac) Argeneau and get on with her nice, quiet, peaceful life where her hormones played hide-and-seek with her instead of running amok at the smell of woods and spice.

The front passenger door opened and that very scent rushed into the car and straight up her nose to make the synapses in her brain start firing like a roll of caps lit on fire. Blinking her eyes open, CJ ignored the sudden chaos in her head, and watched Mac settle in the front seat next to her.

“I hope we did not keep you waiting long.” He offered her a smile that she saw only briefly before he closed the door and the car’s interior light went out again. Even that brief view was enough to have her pulse fluttering like a Victorian virgin at the threat of being ravished. It had left an imprint in her mind, an impression of his face, and what a gorgeous face it was: piercing silvery blue eyes, full pink lips, sharp cheekbones, firm chin, and a nice straight nose under dark brown hair. But dark brown was too pedestrian a description of the hair color she’d glimpsed; it was mostly dark brown but streaked with every color in the brown spectrum from pale beige sand to the dark brown of coffee beans, and even a few splashes of red strands thrown in. The man could have been a model with his looks, CJ thought, and then the back door opened behind her and the light flickered on again.

“Sorry. I had to get the evidence kit,” Officer Simpson explained as he slid in with his tackle box.

“It’s fine,” CJ growled, and started the engine as he closed the door. The car radio immediately began to blast classic rock and she reached quickly to turn it off, recognizing even as she did that the song playing was Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” . . . which was something she was well acquainted with. Comfortably numb was pretty much how she’d been going through life the last few years. It was a state she’d embraced, but one she feared she’d have trouble holding on to with Macon Argeneau around. Thank God he wouldn’t be in her car, or her life, for long.

Twenty minutes, she told herself. That’s how long the ride back to the station would be, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about, or see, Macon (sexy as hell Mac) Argeneau again. Just one twenty-minute silent car ride. She could handle that, she reassured herself. Just concentrate on the road and don’t look at the man.

“So, you aren’t from Sandford?”

CJ blinked at the man, noting that the lights from the GPS screen and various other dials and whatnot in the car all seemed to be glowing on him so that she could see him quite well. Dear Lord he was gorgeous.

“You mentioned staying at the bed-and-breakfast,” he explained, apparently thinking she was gaping at him from surprise rather than simply goggling at his male beauty. “I assume that means you aren’t from town.”

His comment served to bring her out of her momentary fog of lust, and CJ forced her gaze back to the road ahead and nodded. “Yes. I mean, no, I’m not from Sandford.”

She didn’t expand on that, but clenched the steering wheel and told herself to keep her eyes on the road. Safety first, she reminded herself, and it was definitely all kinds of safe for her to concentrate on driving and ignore the man next to her. She managed to do that for the forty-five seconds he let pass before speaking again.

“You’re here to help the police?”

CJ was silent for a minute, her mind taken up with the way he slid in and out of formal speaking. Sometimes he used contractions sounding much more informal, and sometimes he didn’t. It was kind of weird, she decided. She’d only seen that in people who learned English as a second language.

“Ms. Cummings?” Mac asked when she didn’t respond.

His words managed to pull her from her thoughts, but then dropped her into a new one, and that was to wonder how he knew her name and why it sounded so naughty when he spoke it. Simpson must have told him, she decided, and forced herself to the topic at hand, but it was oddly difficult. It took her a full minute to recall his earlier question.

“Right. Helping the police,” she muttered, and then shook her head. “No. Definitely not. I’m here to investigate them. I only agreed to help out tonight because they were in a pinch.”

There, that sounded perfectly normal, she reassured herself, not at all like she was a drooling idiot preoccupied with wondering how his soft lips might feel on her body.

“Wow! Where did that come from?” she muttered to herself with dismay.

“What?” Mac asked. “Where did what come from?”

CJ was so surprised by the question and the fact that it meant she’d apparently spoken out loud that she glanced over at him askance. Fortunately, he was busy peering worriedly out the front window, apparently trying to see what might be ahead. Mouth tightening, she forced her attention forward again and said, “Nothing. A deer just ran across the road.”

A complete and utter lie, she acknowledged, but better than admitting she had been talking to herself. Out loud. About this sudden lust she had for him. Puffing out an exasperated breath, she reached over and turned on the radio. At least they couldn’t talk that way, which seemed the safer bet.